I grab the phone, open the messages, hover over Jay’s chat, then over the marine biologist, then finally over the contacts, thumb trembling.
I scroll to Darius.
I stare at the name for a long time. I want to type something, anything, but my hands won’t do it.
Instead, I put the phone face down, push myself up off the floor, and shuffle to the bathroom.
I look in the mirror. I look tired, older, like I’ve aged a year in a week. There’s a bruise blooming under my jaw, the legacy of a puck to the chin from last practice.
The stubble is patchy, a reminder that I never got the “rugged man” gene.
I splash cold water on my face, stare at myself until the image blurs.
Back in the living room, the phone is still buzzing. I ignore it.
I climb onto the couch, pull a blanket over my head, and hope that when I wake up, the world will be reset.
It won’t be. I know that.
But for now, I can pretend.
For now, I can swipe right on oblivion, over and over, until the phone dies or I do.
Either way, it’s better than the alternative.
Which is remembering.
———
The first hour after midnight is the hungriest.
Every part of me wants something, salt, sleep, the sound of someone else breathing in the room, but I make do with the aftertaste of Advil and the faint hum of the fridge.
My stomach makes a sound like a dying animal. I ignore it.
The phone keeps lighting up, even after I’ve sworn to ignore it, little badges of “1 new message” from people who want to be“friends first” or who have already sent three selfies and a voice note.
I know I should care, but all I feel is a kind of dull irritation, like when you wake up from anesthesia and realize you’re still in the same body, same brain, same unsolvable puzzle.
I lie on the couch, arm over my eyes, the blanket half-tucked and slowly soaking up the day’s sweat.
For a while, I just listen, the tick of the kitchen clock, the dull thump of a bass line from a car outside, the guy upstairs who never learned to walk like a human.
Every sound is a reason to not fall asleep, to stay just awake enough that I don’t drift into the kind of dream where everything is sharp and present and full of people who aren’t coming back.
It’s so pathetic, how I end up checking the phone again.
I tell myself it’s for closure, or because maybe one of these strangers will have a better line, or because the bartender with the tattoos might have sent something funny enough to crack the shell.
But really, it’s because I want to see if anyone, not even Darius, just anyone, can make me feel something that isn’t the absence of them.
The matches are still there, little digital trophies. Marine biologist. Bartender. Nurse.
Plus a dozen more, each with their own neon-pink hair or grainy gym pic or “dog mom” disclaimer. I scroll through them, reading the same lines over and over, “You seem cool,” “You’re cute,” “We should hang.”
None of it sticks.
I flip back to Jay, the nurse, who has sent a selfie this time, a goofy grin and a thumbs-up.
